Against His Will
by Swanseajill
Summary: Dean looked battered, exhausted and on the verge of collapse. The left side of his face was swollen and bruised and Sam flinched at the sight. He’d done that, with his own fist. He had no memory of it, but the evidence was right there in front of him.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Against His Will (Part 1/2)  
**By:** Swanseajill  
**Rating:** Gen, PG-13  
**Pairing:** No pairing  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam  
**Spoilers:** Born Under a Bad Sign  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters nor am I making any money from them

**Summary: **Dean looked battered, exhausted and on the verge of collapse. The left side of his face was swollen and bruised and Sam flinched at the sight. He'd done that, with his own fist. He had no memory of it, but the evidence was right there in front of him.

**Author's notes:** I know there have already been lots of excellent missing scenes and codas written for BUABS, but I still wanted to write my own. I really wish we could have seen what happened immediately after Dean hit Sam, and that's where this missing scene starts. Thanks to iamstealthyone for her usual helpful beta.

"You were possessed."

Searing pain had dragged him from formless shadows, and his confused question, "Did I miss anything?" had earned him the impact of his brother's fist on his jaw. Confused and reeling in shock, he'd caught Bobby's eye, and the hunter had answered the unspoken question in his characteristically blunt way.

Three words, but they sent a chill of fear right through his body. His mind floundered as he grappled with the implications of Bobby's flat statement.

He felt disorientated and disconnected, but reality crashed in when he looked at Dean, now collapsed on his back a couple of feet away, eyes closed, breathing heavily, face lined with pain.

Afraid that his legs wouldn't hold him if he tried to stand, Sam crawled over to his brother.

"Dean?"

He tentatively put a hand on Dean's arm, and Dean flinched, eyes popping open, unfocused and wary. Wary of _him?_ Oh, God. What had he done?

"Dean?" It was more of a plea than a question. He reluctantly scooted back a little to give his brother some room.

Dean swallowed, eyes refocusing, and seemed to see Sam properly this time. The wariness receded, replaced by something that could have been relief.

"Shit, Sammy." Dean grunted as he sat up. "Are you okay?"

Good question. Was he okay? His jaw ached where Dean had hit him, and his wrist was hurting like hell. He looked down at a nasty burn overlying some kind of symbol that was fading even as he watched. He swallowed. "Yeah, I'm fine. You look pretty beat up, though."

Dean's lips quirked. "You think? Dude, you've got fists like giant hams."

Sam looked at him, taking in the bloody nose, the cut above his eyebrow, the bruising starting along his cheekbone. For the first time Sam felt the throbbing pain in his right hand, and raised it so he could see the bloody, skinned knuckles. He bit his lip. _He'd_ done that. He'd beaten the crap out of his own brother.

Dean used the back of his hand to wipe away some of the blood from his nose and then levered himself to his feet, shaking off Sam's offer of help. He staggered over to a chair, sinking heavily into it, left arm held closely to his chest.

"Dean, what's wrong with your arm?"

Dean didn't meet his eyes. "Nothing. Bruised it when you… it… threw me into the wall. It's no big deal."

Sam wasn't convinced, but he said nothing. The pain in his wrist was demanding attention, but he tried to ignore it, looking questioningly from Dean to Bobby. "Will one of you tell me what the hell happened?"

"Later," Dean said. "We need to take care of that burn."

"Fine, but what about you?" Sam asked.

Dean frowned and put a hand to his nose, which was still seeping blood. He looked at Bobby. "Bobby, can you help Sam? I'm gonna go clean up."

Bobby nodded. "I'll take care of it."

Watching Dean head unsteadily toward the bathroom, Sam was tempted to follow him and check he wasn't hurt worse than he'd said. Common sense held him back; he could tell that his concern was the last thing Dean wanted right now.

Instead, he took a seat behind the desk and waited for Bobby.

Bobby returned shortly with a bowl of water, a packet of sterile pads and a first-aid kit. He pulled up a chair beside him. "Okay, Sam, let me take a look."

Sam held out his arm for inspection. "Bobby, all this… damage … I did it, didn't I?"

Bobby grunted. "The demon did it, Sam, while we were trying to exorcise it. It's not your fault."

Sam wasn't so sure. "What if it is? What if I could have stopped it? Maybe I was careless in the first place. Maybe I could have stopped it from taking me—"

"Can't think like that, Sam. What's done is done."

"Yeah, I guess." He looked down at his arm, noting that the symbol was even fainter now. He tried not to wince as Bobby soaked a pad in water, wrung it out and draped it over the burn. "Bobby, that symbol … what is it?"

"It's a binding link. We had you tied down, but the link kinda locked the demon in you and countered the Key of Solomon. Only way I could think to break the link was to use fire against fire."

Sam glanced up at the large crack in the ceiling, then grimaced as Bobby gently pressed down on the burn and pain shot up his arm. "Guess it worked."

Bobby shot him a sympathetic look. "Yeah. Sorry I had to do that, but I had no choice. It was…"

"It was what?"

"It was set on killing your brother, Sam."

Sam closed his eyes for a moment. He hated the thought that the demon had used his body to hurt Dean. "You did the right thing, Bobby. What… why was I… it… here, anyway?"

Bobby glanced up at him before replying. "The demon - it was Meg."

Meg. It made sense. The presence he'd felt inside his mind had been evil, but somehow familiar. Meg had been inside him, manipulating him, hurting Dean. Screwing with their family yet again. His gut churned, and his jaw tightened. "Guess she found a way out of hell."

"Yeah. Don't know how she got out, but she did. Guess she came here because she knew Dean would follow. She said she wanted to hurt him, punish him for sending her back to hell."

So she'd chosen Sam to hurt Dean. Sam shook his head, trying to clear some of the wool. If only he could remember. Bobby didn't seem inclined to say any more, so Sam let it go for now. He'd get Dean to tell him everything later.

They lapsed into silence. Sam tried to think back, to remember something, anything, of the past week, and almost immediately, random memories began to return. In some strange way, he was himself, but sharing his mind with someone else. With Meg, who'd controlled his body and made him do things against his will.

He remembered walking down a street, desperate to change direction, call for help, anything, but he was helpless, and the demon was laughing at his feeble attempts to exert his will. He was in a garage, listening to himself mouthing off to the guy behind the counter. He tried to walk out of there, but his legs wouldn't co-operate. Then he was in a bar, and Jo was there. Jo, terror in her eyes as he held a knife to her throat.

Then he was watching, screaming inside his head, as his hand drew a knife across a man's throat. He watched the blood well up around the blade, saw the light fade in the stranger's eyes, and his hands pushed the body away like discarded trash.

The demon had used him to kill a man.

The memory left him reeling and he barely noticed when Bobby removed the pad and replaced it with another. The cloth was cool against Sam's burning skin and already the pain was easing.

"Keep that on," Bobby said. "I'll be right back." He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and when he returned a moment later, he had an ice compress in his hand.

As if on cue, Dean appeared in the doorway, left arm still tucked close to his chest. He paused for a moment, and Sam saw his jaw clench before he made his way across the room and sat down across the table from Sam.

Dean looked battered, exhausted and on the verge of collapse. The left side of his face was swollen and bruised and Sam flinched at the sight. He'd done that, with his own fist. He had no memory of it, but the evidence was right there in front of him.

Bobby handed Dean the compress. "Should take the swelling down."

Dean nodded his thanks and raised the cold compress to his face, wincing a little. "How's that burn, Sam?"

"It's not too bad," Sam said truthfully.

Dean nodded. "Soon as you're ready, we should get moving."

"Why don't you boys stay here tonight," Bobby said. "You're in no shape to move out."

It sounded like a good plan to Sam, but Dean shook his head. "We need to get moving."

Sam frowned. "Dean, we should stay. You look beat, man. You need to get some rest."

"I'm fine." It was what Sam had expected him to say, but he looked far from fine. Frankly, he looked about ready to fall face forward onto the table.

Sam exchanged an exasperated glance with Bobby, who shrugged.

"At least stay for a while," Bobby said. "Have something to eat."

Dean hesitated, then shrugged. "Okay. Just for a while, though."

Bobby looked from one to the other and seemed to make a decision. "I'll go fix some sandwiches, then."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said.

After Bobby had left the room there was silence for a while, both brothers lost in their own thoughts. Sam wondered how much Dean knew of what he'd done while possessed. And what all _had_ he done? How many people had he hurt? Jo, the man he'd killed, Dean …

He felt sick at the very thought that he'd harmed Dean. Sure, he knew technically it wasn't him. It was _Meg_. Even if he'd been aware, he'd have been helpless to stop it and the damage would have been inflicted against his will. Somehow, that didn't make it any easier to accept. Or forgive.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam had to force himself to meet his brother's eyes. "No, I'm not okay. Bobby said… Bobby said I was going to kill you."

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Meg, Sam. Not you. And Bobby stopped her, so it's all good."

It was far from good, and both of them knew it.

"You going to tell me what happened?" Sam asked after an uneasy silence.

Dean was quiet for a moment, and then sighed heavily. "I guess you need to know. What's the last thing you remember?"

Good question. The memories were disjointed, and the last thing he remembered clearly was… "Me and you. In that motel room in West Texas. I went out to grab some burgers… Dean, what is it?"

Dean was staring at him intently, shock in his eyes.

"Nothing. Just… you … _it_ said the same thing two days ago when I first found you."

"I don't… what do you mean? How long have I been… Dean, what day is it?"

Dean sighed. "West Texas was ten days ago, Sam. When you disappeared, I spent over a week looking for you, but there was no sign of you. Then you called me, gave me the name of the motel where you were. When I got there you said the whole week was a blank, you had no idea what had happened. We tried to retrace your steps, found out… a few things. I couldn't work out what the hell had happened."

He paused, cleared his throat. "Then… well, it turns out it wasn't you at all. The demon must have possessed you as soon as you went missing, and when I found you, it was still in you." He paused again and anger flickered in his eyes. "It totally played me, Sam. Anyway, you… you left, I followed you, and… well, here we are."

There was clearly a lot more to the story. Sam could tell that from Dean's tone and the way he kept avoiding Sam's eyes.

There was so much Sam wanted to know, he wasn't sure where to start.

"Sam? You okay?"

Sam scrubbed his free hand over his face. "I don't know, Dean. I mean, you've just told me I was possessed for ten days. Ten freaking days, man. And I can only remember parts of it. It's just… it's gonna take me awhile to get my mind around that."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I get that."

"We need to talk about this. I need to know what happened, what I did. Dean, I think…" he swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat. "I think I might have killed a man--"

"Not now, Sam," Dean interrupted tersely.

Sam frowned. "Why not? You trust Bobby, don't you?"

"Sure, I trust Bobby. But the less he knows, the better for all of us. Just trust me on this."

"Okay. But, Dean, I need to know. What if --"

Bobby came back into the room, a box of beers in one hand and a plate of sandwiches in the other. Dean shot Sam a warning look, and Sam nodded slightly. Keeping Bobby in the dark sat uncomfortably with him, but right now, he was willing to go with Dean's instincts.

Bobby put the plate and the beer on the table. "Dig in."

Sam had never felt less like eating, his stomach churning uncomfortably in much the same way as his mind. But he had no idea when he'd last eaten, so it made sense to at least try. He forced himself to take a bite of sandwich.

His eyes met Dean's across the table. This wasn't the time, but later he'd make Dean tell him everything that had happened. He needed to know.

He needed to know exactly what he'd done.

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

**Against His Will**

**Part Two** (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.)

For the hundredth time in the past two hours, Sam shot a look at Dean, who sat beside him grim-faced, right hand gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles showed white, left hand tucked in his lap.

They had stayed at Bobby's only long enough to force down a couple of sandwiches and a beer. Sam knew why Dean had been so anxious to move on. It was to protect_ him_.

Bobby had warned them obliquely to keep quiet about Steve Wandell's murder. Clearly, he had worked it out, and although Sam followed Dean's lead in denying any knowledge of the man, it was obvious Wandell was the hunter he – it – had killed.

It stuck in his gut to lie. Wandell's family deserved to know how the man had died, but all three of them knew that telling the truth wasn't an option.

Shit. What a mess.

They had been driving for two hours. Sam hadn't even asked where they were going. He didn't think Dean knew or cared. Dean had just carefully eased himself in the car and headed for the highway. Sam hadn't even bothered to state the obvious – that Dean was clearly in no condition to drive. He knew it would have been futile and caused an argument he was too tired and drained to deal with.

Since Dean's lame attempt at lightening the atmosphere with a joke, they had driven in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Even had Sam wanted to turn his thoughts away from the hideous truth of his possession, the nagging pain of his burned wrist was a constant reminder, and he found more and more memories returning unbidden. No more murders, just disjointed images of places and people, not enough to piece together anything concrete about his movements during that time. Strangely, Dean figured in none of them. That scared him. Meg has possessed him with the express purpose of hurting his brother, but he had no idea what all he'd done – or said – in the past ten days. Had she had deliberately blocked him out, prevented him from seeing?

Looking at Dean now, Sam could see that it was taking everything he had just to keep going. Aside from the bruising, his face was deathly pale and his jaw tightly clenched. He was clearly in pain, that injured arm probably broken, not just bruised, although hell would freeze over before Dean admitted it.

When the car veered erratically for the second time on a perfectly straight road, Sam decided enough was enough. He needed to get Dean into a motel room where he could check his injuries, and he needed to do it now, before Dean managed to wrap the Impala around a tree and kill them both.

"Dean, I'm pretty tired," he said casually. "Think we could stop soon?"

Dean glanced across at him, eyes questioning, but if he knew it was an excuse, he didn't say so. "Next town's a couple of miles ahead. We'll find a motel there."

Ten minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of a small motel on the outskirts of town. Sam didn't know where it was, nor did he care. Dean switched off the engine and just sat, not attempting to get out of the car, as if he needed to summon the energy to move. When he finally opened the door, Sam didn't miss the careful way he climbed out, or the small hiss of pain.

"I'll check us in," Sam said. "One look at your face and we'll be out on our asses."

Dean didn't even argue, just nodded shortly, leaned back against the car door, and closed his eyes. Sam completed the check-in process as quickly as he could, and when he returned to the car, Dean stood in the same position, braced against the door as if the solid frame of the car was the only thing keeping him upright. It probably was.

"Number 12. Just over there." Sam pointed at a garish red door close to their parking space.

In silence, they pulled their bags from the trunk and made their way to the room. Sam unlocked the door and pushed it open, motioning for Dean to go in first.

He entered behind his brother and watched closely as Dean walked unsteadily toward the nearest bed and dropped his bag on the floor beside it. Dean stood, swaying slightly, then turned and looked at Sam. He said faintly, "Sam, I… I…" and then his eyes rolled back in his head.

Sam had been waiting for Dean to crash and was already halfway across the room when his knees buckled. He reached him in one more stride, grabbing him around the waist before he hit the floor on his face. As it was, Dean's weight dragged them both to their knees, and Sam tightened his grip, holding him up as Dean's head lolled onto his shoulder.

"It's okay, I've got you," he murmured. Getting no response, he tapped Dean's face lightly, but his brother was out cold.

Stupid, stubborn idiot.

Trying to ignore a rising fear in his gut, Sam manhandled Dean onto the bed, laid him down on his right side and flopped down beside him, breathing heavily. He should have learned by now that Dean was heavier than he looked. He'd certainly had enough practice hauling his unconscious ass about.

Stupid, stubborn_ dumbass_.

Dean stirred, mumbled something incoherent, but didn't wake up.

Sam sat for a moment, assessing the situation. With luck, Dean had passed out more from exhaustion than pain. He _did_ look beat. He hadn't though much about it before, too caught up in wondering about his own actions in the previous week, but now it occurred to him that Dean must have gone through hell while he was missing.

He would have been frantic when Sam walked out and didn't come back – it would have seemed like déjà vu. Did Dean think he'd left again, determined to face his demons alone? He could imagine Dean turning over every stone, getting more and more desperate the longer there was no news. He had probably barely slept during that time. The beating hadn't caused the dark smudges under his eyes. Dean had been running on nothing more than adrenalin for God knew how long, and the tank had finally run dry.

Sam shook himself out of his reverie. He needed to get Dean a little more comfortable and settled down for a good night's sleep – and he'd look at that injured arm while he was at it. He started with boots and jeans, and then began tugging Dean's jacket off. A small bottle rolled out of one of the pockets and he picked it up, frowning. Prescription painkillers – strong ones – and not a brand he recognized from their own first-aid kit. Where and when had Dean gotten those, and why?

He put them aside and pulled Dean's right arm out of the jacket. Then he began on the left, being careful not to jog the injured arm too much. Dean moaned and shifted a little, then stilled. Sam frowned as the jacket sleeve came away wet. What the hell? Carefully, he rolled Dean onto his back and looked in shock at the blood soaking through Dean's shirt. What the…?

He pulled the shirt back, revealing a bloody bandage underneath. The arm of Dean's T-shirt had been cut away to accommodate the dressing.

Sam pulled back and bit his lip. A feeling of apprehension rolled over him as he contemplated how Dean might have come about this injury, but he fought it back, needing to concentrate on the practical. God knew how long the wound had been bleeding, but it explained why Dean had suddenly crashed. It would also explain why he was so pale and his skin clammy to the touch.

Both shirts were beyond salvaging, so he grabbed a knife and made quick work of cutting through the fabric, pulling both shirts off and throwing their remains on the floor. Then he picked up the first-aid kit he'd brought into the room and pulled out a few sterile wipes. Gingerly, he pulled the bandage off, and what he revealed made his gut clench.

A small, neat hole.

A small, neat _bullet_ hole.

The flesh around was bruised and swollen, and the wound itself was seeping blood, but Sam barely registered these facts. He couldn't take his eyes off the hole.

The apprehension grew into full-bodied horror as the implications sank in. Had _he_ done this? Could he have shot his own brother?

Dean moaned again, deep in his chest, and moved his head. He was coming around and that was good, because Sam needed to know about this wound. He needed to know if the bullet was still in there.

"Dean? Come on, open your eyes."

Dean opened them half-mast and gave Sam a confused look. "Wass wrong?"

What's wrong? Sam didn't even know where to begin, but now wasn't the time for recriminations. That could wait.

"You passed out," he said softly.

"I… what?"

"You passed out. You're exhausted, and you've lost a lot of blood."

Dean just looked at him, clearly having trouble focusing.

"I need to change the dressing on your shoulder," Sam went on with forced casualness.

It was testimony to Dean's weakness and confusion that he didn't even notice that Sam had discovered his subterfuge. "S'okay. Check it… in the morning."

"No, I need to look at it now. Is the bullet still in there?"

Dean's eyes drifted shut and he didn't answer.

"Dean? I need you to stay with me, okay." He grasped Dean's uninjured shoulder and shook him gently. "_Dean_!"

Dean muttered what sounded like an obscenity and opened his eyes again. "Lemme alone."

"You can go to sleep soon, but first I need you to tell me if the bullet's still in there."

"Bullet?"

Sam pulled together the edges of his patience. "You have a bullet hole in your shoulder. Is the bullet still in there?"

A pause. "Jo dug it out. She… butcher."

Jo had removed the bullet? Sam only remembered some of the nightmarish time with Jo. He remembered holding a knife to her throat, and Dean coming into the room with a gun and throwing holy water over him. Beyond that, everything was hazy.

There was one thing he had to know for sure, and much as he hated taking advantage of Dean's weakness, he had to ask the question.

"Who shot you, Dean?"

No response and Dean's eyes drifted shut.

"_Dean!_ Just tell me who shot you."

Tired eyes blinked open again. "You … the demon."

It was the answer he'd feared but which he'd known deep down was true. And Dean had chosen to suffer in silence to protect him from the truth. That made him angry – and proud. Angry that Dean would always choose to put him first whatever the consequences to himself. Proud that he had a brother who loved him enough to do that.

He pushed the truth to the back of his mind. "Okay. One more question." He held up the bottle of painkillers where Dean could see them. "Did Jo give you these?"

Dean squinted at the bottle. "Yeah."

"When did you last take some?"

"What?"

"When, Dean? When did you last take some?"

"Dunno. Bobby's."

"_When_ at Bobby's?"

"Bathroom," Dean murmured, eyes blinking slowly. "Jus' … took one."

He'd only taken one, probably because he knew that taking more would knock him out and give the game away.

Sonofabitch.

While Bobby had been tending to Sam's arm, Dean had been in the bathroom patching up a freaking bullet wound.

Sam shook two pills out and grabbed a bottle of water. "Just take these, Dean. Then you can go to sleep, I promise."

"'kay."

Dean swallowed the pills and laid back, eyes closed. Sam looked more closely at the wound. It was still seeping, but slowly. Clearly, Dean had lost a lot of blood, but it could have been much worse. If it had been bleeding profusely on the drive from Bobby's, Dean could easily have gone into shock from blood loss.

Sam waited for a few minutes to let the painkillers take effect and until Dean seemed to have dropped into sleep. He needed to stop the bleeding, but it would hurt like hell, and the more out of it Dean was, the better. Taking a sterile bandage, he placed it over the wound, gritted his teeth, and firmly pressed down.

Dean gave a strangled cry, his eyes popped open, and a hand shot up and closed around Sam's wrist.

A memory jolted through Sam's mind. His hand on Dean's shoulder, thumb cruelly digging deep into already broken flesh. Dean, face screwed up in agony, one hand clasped around Sam's wrist in a futile attempt to fend him off.

Oh, God. He'd done so much more than punch his brother. First he'd shot him, and then he'd tortured him, brutally and with cold deliberation.

The memory was almost too much to bear. The vision of Dean's agony was so clear in his mind. He remembered his own anguish as he'd watched, helpless to stop it. Why hadn't he been strong enough to break through, to stop Meg? Because Meg had planned to finish it. To keep hurting Dean until he screamed for mercy, and then to use Sam's own hands to end his brother's life.

Now, in Dean's confused mind, Sam was hurting him all over again. He felt bile rising in his throat, and swallowed against it resolutely. This wasn't the time to indulge his own guilt. Much as he wanted to stop, much as he hated hurting his brother again, it was vital to stop the bleeding.

"Dean, look at me. I'm sorry. God I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you, but I have to stop the bleeding. Dean, please…"

Dean gazed at him, eyes wide and confused. "Sammy?"

"It's me. I promise, it's me. I'm sorry. I know it hurts. Just a little longer, okay, until the bleeding stops. Trust me."

Trust him. What right did he have to ask that, after what he'd put Dean through? But Dean's hand dropped from his wrist and he whispered, "Always, Sammy."

Sam swallowed past a lump in his throat. How could Dean say those words with such conviction? He'd allowed himself to be possessed – was that all part of his destiny, that somehow he was more susceptible to possession because of it? If so, it could happen again, at any time. This time, he'd killed a man, threatened Jo, shot and beaten Dean. What about next time? Would he finish the job, wake up one morning to find himself with a bloody knife, leaning over Dean's dead body?

He felt sick, and his hand was shaking a little, but he resolutely pressed the bandage over the wound until the bleeding had stopped. When he examined the injury more carefully, he could see that Jo had done a good job of cleaning it thoroughly. Hunter's daughter. She probably knew as much as he did about first aid.

There was no sign of infection, and for that, Sam was profoundly thankful. The skin around the bullet hole was bruised and the skin red and puffy, but that was to be expected after he'd deliberately ground his thumb into it. Sam shuddered and tried to close his mind to the memories as he put on a new dressing and taped it down firmly.

Through the whole process Dean's eyes had stayed closed, an occasional hiss of breath through his lips and an iron-fisted hold on a handful of comforter the only signs that he was hurting.

When Sam was finished, he pulled the comforter up around his brother and then sat on the edge of the bed and watched until it was clear Dean had drifted into sleep.

To be continued…

**A/N** This was going to be a two-parter, but it kind of grew. It should be wrapped up in part three!


	3. Chapter 3

**Against His Will**

**Part Three** (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.)

Sam was afraid to sleep. It was irrational. It was illogical. But asleep, he'd be out of control. Awake, at least he knew he was _him_, that nothing had power over him, making him commit unspeakable acts against his will.

So he lay on his bed propped up against the headboard, trying to read a book in the dim light of the bedside lamp, one eye constantly on his brother's sleeping form. He'd deliberately taken only a light dose of painkillers, enough to dull the pain from the burn but not enough to knock him out. He tried to concentrate on his book, to keep his mind occupied, but he never got past the first page. His thoughts kept returning to the memories of the past ten days, going over and over the same frustrating fragments.

The more he thought about it, the more he kept coming back to a disturbing question. How could he have been weak enough to allow the demon to control him for so long? He'd killed a man, threatened Jo, and shot and beaten his own brother. And, horrific as it was to think that the demon had used him to kill a man, it was even more terrifying to know that it had used him to hurt Dean. Every time he thought about it, he glanced across at Dean, needing to reassure himself that his brother was still there, alive and safe and sleeping peacefully in his bed.

He glanced at his watch. Seven a.m. His eyes moved automatically to the other bed as Dean stirred slightly and grunted in his sleep.

Thankfully, Dean had slept soundly for most of the night, courtesy of a combination of painkillers and exhaustion. A couple of times he'd stirred restlessly, and twice had woken from a nightmare, shaking and shouting incoherently. Each time Sam had been right there, and his murmured reassurances had been enough to send Dean straight back to sleep before he was fully aware.

Sam got out of bed, took a long, hot shower and checked the burn on his arm. It was far less painful now and the inflammation was much reduced. More importantly, the strange symbol had completely disappeared as if it had never been there. He only wished he could obliterate his memories in the same way.

He dressed, then settled down at the table with his laptop. He spent the next couple of hours searching the Internet for reports of any other suspicious or unsolved murders that had taken place during that fateful week. He found a couple of references to Steve Wandell's death, but nothing else that would indicate his own involvement.

He glanced at his watch – 11 a.m. – and then across at Dean. His brother had been tossing and turning for the past half hour, and Sam thought he'd probably wake soon. He contemplated Dean's sleeping form for a moment. It should be safe to leave him for a few minutes while he slipped out to get breakfast at the donut shop next door to the motel. Still, he scribbled a quick note just in case and propped it up against the base of the lamp on the table beside Dean's bed.

It took him longer than he'd expected – turned out he wasn't the only one who thought breakfast was a good idea. When he returned with a bag of donuts and two Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee, he wasn't surprised to find Dean awake and sitting on the edge of the bed, clad only in his boxers, staring down at his hands.

Dean didn't look up when Sam came in, so Sam walked across the room, set the bag and the coffees down on the table between them and then sank down on his own bed, opposite his brother.

"Hey," he said softly.

Dean glanced up. Sam couldn't hide a grimace of sympathy as he saw the full extent of the bruising on Dean's face. His left eye was circled in blackish-purple, and a large lump had formed around the cut above the eye. His nose was swollen and discolored, and a huge bruise on his cheekbone stood out starkly against otherwise pale skin. He looked like crap, and Sam was sure he must feel like it, too.

"Hey," Dean said. "How's your arm?"

Typical. Dean was hurt far worse than he was, yet the first thing on his mind was Sam's arm.

Sam appreciated Dean's concern, he really did, but it exasperated him that Dean never seemed concerned with his own well-being.

"It's okay," he answered. "Starting to heal already."

Dean searched his eyes, presumably to make sure he was telling the truth, then nodded and reached for his coffee. As he did, Sam noticed the bruising snaking around his upper back and shoulders.

Shit.

Sam hadn't thought to check him for other injuries last night. Stupid. He knew he'd thrown Dean against a wall with some force – Dean had told him that himself – but he'd been too focused on the bullet wound to think of checking for anything else.

The bullet wound.

Sam's stomach clenched as he looked at the neat white dressing that covered the evidence that he'd shot his brother. There were a lot of things he could say at this point. He could ask Dean how he was feeling, but that would be pretty pointless. Dean would say, "I'm fine," and he'd answer, "You're not fine, Dean," and Dean would tell him to back off. He didn't have the energy or the inclination to get into it.

Instead, he asked softly, "Were you even going to tell me?"

Dean's eyes shifted and he looked down at his coffee cup. "Tell you what?"

"What do you think? I shot you, Dean." He was surprised at how calm he sounded when he was so tensed up that he wanted to scream the words.

Dean looked up and his lip quirked. "Yeah, I noticed. And you know what? You really need to get in some target practice, Sammy, because I've seen grandmas with a better aim."

Sam stared incredulously at his brother. He knew it was Dean's MO to head off a difficult conversation with humor. But it pissed him off that Dean could even think of making light of this.

"Don't joke about this. I tried to kill you! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it wasn't you, Sam." Dean took a mouthful of coffee and scrubbed a hand across his face, breath hissing through his lips as he touched the sore spot on his cheek.

"That's not the point!" He almost shouted the words.

Dean rolled his eyes. "And because I wasn't ready to deal with you having a full-on emo attack about it. Like you're doing now."

"What do you expect? I tried to kill you! Dean, I… I…"

Dean groaned. "For the last time, _you_ didn't do anything. It was the demon. Am I gonna have to pound that into your thick skull?"

"So you don't blame me for what I did?"

Dean looked surprised. "Blame you? Hell, no."

He sounded sincere, but still, Sam searched his eyes for a sign that he was hiding the truth. After Dean's subconscious recoil at Bobby's and the words he'd shouted during one of his nightmares, Sam needed to know for sure.

"So when you woke up screaming from a nightmare last night," he challenged, "why were you shouting, 'Don't, Sam. Please, Sam, stop.'"

Dean looked startled. "What?"

"Last night, you had a nightmare. You were reliving what happened, and it was obvious you thought it was me hurting you."

Dean shook his head vehemently. "… Oh, come on, Sam. It was a just a nightmare. It doesn't count, okay?"

Sam gritted his teeth. He wouldn't let Dean dismiss this so easily. "No, it's not okay. You were having a nightmare about me hurting you… how can that be okay?"

"Fine." Dean stood up abruptly, and Sam didn't miss the spasm of pain that crossed his face at the sudden movement. "What do you want me to say? A demon wearing my brother's body knocked me out, shot me and beat the crap out of me. Maybe I'm having trouble dealing with that. It doesn't mean it's your fault and it doesn't mean I blame you. It's no different than the last time you shot me!"

Sam stared up at his brother in shock at the painful reminder that this wasn't the first time he'd tried to kill Dean. The same thing had happened at the Roosevelt Asylum. Then, he'd been under the influence of Ellicott's spirit, and he'd shot Dean point-blank with a barrel of rock salt. Now ... shit, now he'd become the second person in the family who'd tried to kill Dean while possessed by a demon.

Sam had no trouble recalling the scene at the cabin. The image was never far from his thoughts, and too often in his dreams: Dean, pinned helpless against a wall, face contorted in agony as the demon in their father's body tore him apart from the inside.

Why Dean? Why, of all three of them, did these things happen to the one person who had always held their family together? All Dean had ever wanted was to protect his family. And all too often, his reward was pain and anguish.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, overwhelmed by the images assailing him. He had no idea what to say; there was nothing he _could_ say to make this better. In the end, he simply said, "I'm sorry." The words sounded empty and so inadequate.

Dean sighed. "If you say that again, I swear I'm gonna take a swing at you."

"I'm… look, this whole thing's freaked me out, man. I mean, you've told me some of the things that happened during that week, but who knows what else I… it did. Like – after you found me, what happened?"

Dean looked at him for a long moment, then sat back down on the edge of the bed. "I told you what happened. The demon played me, man. It possessed you, took off and kept a low profile for over a week. I guess it thought that was long enough for me to get desperate - it figured I'd be so glad to get you back that I wouldn't be thinking straight."

He paused to take a sip of coffee. "It was right. When it called me, told me where you were and I came and found you, I didn't care about anything except that you were alive. It must have been digging round in your head, because I swear Sam, it sounded like you and it acted just like you."

"What happened then?"

"It…" Dean hesitated, and Sam saw the distress in his eyes as he recalled the scene. "When I found you, you were covered in blood – someone else's blood."

"Steve Wandell." Sam's stomach churned every time he heard the name.

"Yeah. Though I didn't know that then. Anyway, it made like you'd lost your memory, but you were freakin' out because you thought you'd killed someone. It wanted me to think you'd turned evil; that was the whole point. It was the way she – it – was going to get revenge. It wanted me to kill you."

Sam frowned. "But you didn't."

Dean paused and a jaw muscle twitched. No, I didn't."

"Why, Dean? If you thought…"

"I didn't think anything. Look, we went over this in the car. It was the right call. You weren't evil, you were possessed."

"But you didn't know that."

"And I didn't know you were evil, either. I wasn't sure of anything."

Sam tried to put himself in Dean's shoes. A brother who'd been missing for a week, covered in blood, all signs pointing to the fact that he'd killed a man. Compelling evidence, in his book. But even that wasn't enough for Dean. What else would he need to convince him that there was no other option?

Dean must have sensed his thoughts, for he said, "I knew something was off, Sam, I just didn't know what. Not at first. But when you knocked me out and took off again, I was pretty sure it was possession. Just accept that, okay?"

What? "I… I knocked you out?"

Dean smiled ruefully. "Yeah. I had my guard down and you clocked me good."

Sam winced at this further evidence of Dean's suffering at his hands. He was silent, trying to work through this new information, and Dean took his silence as an indicator that the conversation was over. He stood up again carefully.

""I'm gonna take a shower."

"Dean…"

"Just drop it, Sam."

Sam knew there was a lot more to say. He could tell Dean was holding a lot back of the time he'd spent with the demon he thought was his brother. Like how Dean had found him with Jo and what had happened next. But it was clear that Dean didn't want to talk about it, and he could accept that - for now.

He nodded. "Okay. Fine. Go take your shower, and I'll take a look at your shoulder when you're done."

"Whatever."

Sam watched as Dean moved slowly and stiffly towards the bathroom, the bruises across his back showing up dark and ugly. After Dean shut the door, Sam scrubbed his hands over his face as if he could erase the sight and reached for his coffee.

Continued in Part Four.


	4. Chapter 4

**Against His Will**

**Part Four** (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.)

Dean came out of the bathroom twenty minutes later and Sam was surprised but relieved that he made no protest when Sam insisted on changing the bandage on the shoulder wound. He was sure Dean was just pandering to his need to look after him, but he didn't really care, so long as he got to do what needed to be done.

Dean lay back against the headboard of the bed as Sam carefully peeled off the bandage to reveal the bullet wound beneath. Sam was relieved to see that there was no infection, and the hole was even beginning to close. But just the sight of it, knowing that he'd caused it, made him feel sick.

"How's the pain?" he asked.

"It's…" Dean cut off what he was about to say when he saw Sam's raised eyebrow and smiled ruefully. "It's bearable."

"You want some more painkillers?"

"Took a couple in the bathroom."

"Okay."

Sam removed the old dressing and began to cut a new one to size, working silently, trying to concentrate on the job at hand and clear his mind of disturbing thoughts.

"Sam."

Dean was looking at him with a mixture of irritation and concern.

"What?"

"You need to stop beating yourself up about this."

Sam snorted. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one looking at the bullet hole you made in your brother's body."

"No, but I _am_ the one with the bullet hole in my body, and I don't have a problem with it. Sam, you have to get past this. Just accept that you're innocent, that you had no choice."

Sam held his brother's eyes and voiced the fear that had been growing in his mind all morning. "What if I did have a choice? Maybe I could have broken the demon's control, if I'd tried hard enough."

"Don't be stupid, Sam," Dean said sharply. "No one's strong enough to do that."

"Dad was."

There was a deathly silence. Back at the cabin, when the demon had been killing Dean inch by inch, their Dad had broken its control just long enough for Sam to reach the colt.

"That was different," Dean said finally.

Sam finished securing the new bandage and began to collect together the items he'd used from the first-aid kit, keeping his eyes fixed on his task. "Why, Dean? Why was it different? The demon was killing you then, just like I was at Bobby's."

"Sam, we don't even know that's what happened with Dad."

Sam looked up then, startled. "Yes, we do," he said with conviction. "Dad saved your life because he was strong enough. I… I'm supposed to be the one with the powers, Dean. Why couldn't I break free?"

"Sam—"

"What if," Sam rushed on, "what if I couldn't break its power because something inside me really _is_ evil and I wanted what was happening?"

"That's total crap, Sam," Dean said tightly. You're not evil and you're never gonna be evil. You gotta stop thinking like this. I don't know what happened in the cabin, but it doesn't matter. I know you. I know you'd have tried as hard as you could to break free, and it was too strong for you. That's it. End of discussion."

Sam put everything back in the first-aid kit and replaced it in his duffle bag, then sank back down on the bed and drank the last few mouthfuls of cold coffee. They sat in silence for a long while, until finally Dean said softly, "We'll work it out, Sam."

Sam shook his head. "How, Dean? If I'm that weak, how can I fight it? How can I stop myself turning evil?"

Dean looked at him strangely for a moment, jaw clenching and unclenching, and then swallowed hard. "Look, Sam, I get it, okay? You think you need to be strong because you don't trust me to save you."

"What?" Where had that come from? "Dean, of course I trust you. But this… it's too big, and you're just one man. You can't do the impossible."

"I shouldn't have let it happen. I let my guard down. Hell, Sam, I let that freakin' demon get its damned sulphurous claws into you."

Sam snorted. "Come on, Dean, how can you possibly blame yourself for that? It wasn't your fault. You didn't know about Meg. How could you?"

"I'm supposed to save you, Sam," Dean said, a harsh edge to his voice. "But I'm doing a pretty crap job of it."

The words were a trigger, and a memory surged through Sam's mind. He was back on the floor at Bobby's, seeing his fist pounding into Dean's face. This time, he could hear cruel words coming out of his own mouth, words designed to hurt and destroy. _"You're worthless. You couldn't save your Dad. And deep down, you know that you can't save your brother. They'd have been better off without you."_

No.

Suddenly, Sam was back in the asylum, hearing similar, scathing words from his own mouth. _"I'm not pathetic, like you."_ That image was replaced by the cabin, where Dean stood pinned to the wall, and Dad taunted, _"You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is….they don't need you. Not like you need them." _

Worthless. Pathetic. Unneeded. Dean had heard these words again and again. He had to be wondering if the words were simply the cruel taunts of an evil being or a semblance of truth dredged from the subconscious minds of his brother and father.

Dean already carried a heavy enough burden, and now, he'd been trusted with being Sam's only hope. For the first time, Sam really understood the strain Dean had been under ever since his father had told him the secret of Sam's possible future.

All his life, Dean had taken upon himself the responsibility for Sam's safety, and for much of his younger years, Sam had simply accepted that. Not so much as his right, but simply as the way things were. As an adult, he often railed against what he saw as Dean's annoying overprotectiveness, but deep down, he still relied on Dean to make things right. Subconsciously, he still believed Dean could fix everything.

That was why he'd made Dean promise to kill him if he couldn't save him – because he trusted Dean to do the right thing. It was simple to him. Dean is the person he trusts most in the world, and therefore the only one he can trust with the hardest task of all. But he was beginning to see that all this time, he'd only been thinking about himself. He'd been so fixated on the fear of turning evil and hurting people that all he'd cared about was getting Dean to promise to do the right thing. He hadn't thought too much about what this was doing to Dean.

Now he understood that it was killing Dean, that his brother would rather die than do what he promised to do.

As for not being needed – that was almost funny. Because Sam had never needed his brother more than he needed him now.

"Dean, you've been saving me all my life. You've always been there for me, and you've always come through. Always."

Dean swallowed hard. "Not always."

"Always," Sam repeated firmly. "And the times you couldn't help me, the times when I got hurt, those were times when there was nothing you could have done."

"You believe I can save you this time?" Dean asked gruffly.

"The truth? I don't know. We're in over our heads, man. But I do know that you'll fight 'til your dying breath to save me, and that's enough, Dean. I trust you – I always have and I always will. And I trust you to do the right thing, if it ever comes to that."

"It won't."

"Okay. But whatever happens, I need you. I can't get through this without you."

There was a long pause, then Dean said very quietly, "I can't lose you, Sam."

"I know. What you don't understand is that I can't lose you either. Okay?"

Sam waited for Dean's slight nod before continuing. "Look, we just need to keep going, you know? We work together, and we kick some badass demon butt. Right?"

As he spoke he realized that he wasn't just speaking for Dean's benefit. For the first time since this whole thing had started, he actually saw a glimmer of hope.

Dean let out his breath in a long sigh. "Yeah." He smiled faintly. "Nothing wrong with kicking demon ass, that's for damned sure."

Sam nodded emphatically. "Okay then."

There was a long pause, then Dean eyed the paper bag on the table between them.

"What's in there?"

"Donuts."

Dean smiled. "What kind?"

"Couple of plain, couple of custard with chocolate icing."

Dean's smile broadened and he raised an interrogative eyebrow.

"The custard ones are yours."

"Oh, yeah." Dean gave a satisfied sigh. "Because I'm am awesome big brother, right?"

Sam snorted. "Because you'd just whine and whine if I said I wanted the custard ones."

"Sammy, I don't whine."

"You so do, Dean."

"Don't."

"Do."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Sam picked up the bag and tossed it to Dean. He smiled as Dean caught the flying object in his right hand and began eagerly rooting through it.

The future still looked bleak, but at least they were facing it together. And that made all the difference.

**The End**

**A/N **I hope the final couple of chapters lived up to expectations – this is how I picture the conversation going, but some of you may have very different views on the way it should have gone! If so, I'd be interested to hear them. Either way, I want to thank everyone who's encouraged me with reviews on earlier chapters – they certainly helped me in the writing of the final two.


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